Useless
by WerewolfDoctor
Summary: John begins to feel that he is useless. What will it take to prove him wrong? May contain John/Sherlock later. Wasn't sure about the rating.
1. Chapter 1

John had been feeling it more and more often lately. He tried not to, obviously, but he couldn't help it. There was no denying it. He was useless when it came to solving cases. Useless when it came to most things these days. He couldn't deduct like Sherlock, he just stood there like an idiot, he was an idiot, he couldn't even compare to Lestrade and the others. Occasionally he'd input his medical opinion, but really, Lestrade had his own men and women to do that. They didn't need him. He was just a tag along, there to stroke Sherlock's ego, not that it needed it.

Nobody needed him any more. Not even the surgery, they just kept him on out of sympathy and the shattered remains of Sarah's affection, but that was waning.

The limp and the tremor in his left hand returned. Sherlock couldn't understand it. It was frustrating. Maddening. It had to be linked to this inexplicable depression John had acquired, but beyond that Sherlock had no clue. This was why he didn't deal with emotions. They didn't make sense.

He could work out everything, but this. This one impossible mystery eluding him: the mystery of John Watson. The danger was still there, the adrenaline. Everything that had made the limp and the tremor go away in the first place. It simply made no sense. This was unbearable. Sherlock couldn't drag John around London chasing criminals if he was limping. What happened if he got stuck on his own without John to help? He had to find some way to make it go away again. This was his new primary case. The only thing that mattered. Making John well.

DI Greg Lestrade noticed. The promising partnership between Sherlock and John was slowly crumbling before their eyes and nobody could work out why. Not even, it seemed, Sherlock. Something was wrong with John; that much was certain, but precisely what or why they did not know. Greg was worried. He cared about John, quite apart from the remarkable positive effect he had had on Sherlock, he genuinely liked the affable ex-soldier. Everybody did. It was almost impossible not to.

John and him had become good friends over the months, and went out for drinks down the pub, when they got the time. They even managed to (shock and horror) talk about things not related to Sherlock or work, but now those outings had dried up. John always made his (polite) excuses. He still asked, though, call it a desperate hope, but always by text, he couldn't bear the smile, the sad, polite smile.

Mycroft even considered subtly getting a psychologist for Doctor John Watson, the best there was, of course. He quickly dismissed this thought for two reasons. The first: John Watson had a bad history with psychologists. Trust issues, if he remembered correctly, no doubt these would be worsened by his current problems. And secondly, if Sherlock ever found out, and he undoubtedly would work it out, Sherlock would never forgive him. It would be even worse than the time he had forced Sherlock into the rehabilitation centre. Doctor Watson, though he did not know it had quite a hold over his little brother.

It was a strange phenomenon. Mycroft cared for John Watson, in his own way, not least because he was good for his brother. And Mycroft cared for his brother more than either brother would ever like to admit. Mycroft didn't care for many people. He and Sherlock were similar in that regard, and John Watson was fortunate in that regard, to be cared for by both Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes. Mycroft had a lot of power, and he would use that power to protect the people he cared about.

Mrs Hudson worried for her boys. She worried for them normally, of course (the messes they got into); some rusty maternal instinct had fired off when she had met them and she had made it her mission to look after them, even though she always insisted she 'wasn't their housekeeper' (and nobody ever believed her). Now though, John was spiralling down some dark rabbit hole and Sherlock was doing his very best to follow him in some misguided attempt to save him and Mrs Hudson had no idea what to do.

John sunk further, and the people around him worried. All the while he fought, resisted. Never would he turn to drink, though the temptation was strong. He had seen what it could do, not only to his sister, but to far too many of his patients. The desire though, it nagged at him. The desire to blow his brains out: to forget everything and be sent to absolute bliss. To be unaware of his misery for even a short amount of time. He knew that was why Harry had started drinking, though God knows why she had started drinking: when she had started drinking she had had everything and the drink had taken everything away from her.

He felt weak, hopeless, and that made him even more depressed, which only made him feel weaker, and more hopeless. It was a cruel cycle and one he felt he could never escape.

The first time John got drunk he was in the middle of London. Sherlock wasn't anywhere around. He eventually stumbled back to Baker Street with a huge hangover feeling entirely beyond repair. He knew he wouldn't be able to hide the facts from Sherlock. He never could. For the first time he hated Sherlock for that, though he knew he could never truly hate Sherlock. John entered. Sherlock took one look at him and snapped.

"What's going on with you, John?"

John stood stone still, with no idea what to say. There was no way he could tell Sherlock the truth, but he looked and sounded so genuinely worried … panic stricken. Did Sherlock really care about him that much?

_No, don't be stupid. He's just annoyed his blogger isn't behaving properly. Or he's acting. He can act so very well._

"Please … Just tell me,"

_But Sherlock never says please._

"I can't work it out."

_Ah. That was it. He was a puzzle. I'm sorry Sherlock; I can't help you with this one. This is one of my secrets that has to be kept secret._

"I want to help you."

But John didn't tell.

John didn't drink again. Never mind the fact that he was a doctor and knew all the medical consequences of becoming an alcoholic, he had hated the hangover his little drinking session had given him, no matter what the benefits of getting drunk out of his mind.

After John's drinking session Sherlock did what he rarely ever did (but this was a rare case) and asked Lestrade for help. John was clearly struggling with his problems and was now experimenting turning to drink. Lestrade had helped him when he was coming off the drugs; it was logical to assume he could also help John, although he was certain John's situation wasn't the same as his. Sherlock's brain, in Sherlock's own words, needed stimulation, and the drugs provided that, so he and Lestrade reached an agreement. Sherlock would take the cases Lestrade was finding too difficult, and Sherlock would stay off the drugs.

It had often been noted in Scotland Yard that one of Detective Inspector Lestrade's greatest strengths, as well as being a brilliant Detective, was the ability to get even the most reluctant of witnesses talking. That was what John needed. Not Sherlock's deductive skills, which at the moment weren't deducting much.

And so Greg talked. And talked. And talked, but nothing he said or did could convince John to voice his problem. He tried everything. He even tried telling John that talking would help to which John replied that Greg sounded like his, "Bloody therapist," which from the way he said it was pretty obvious was _not_ a compliment.

In fact, Greg talking to him only seemed depress John further, which frustrated and even upset Greg to the extreme. He _liked_ John, and it was driving him mad that he couldn't help.

Then it struck him.

_He _was talking to John.

But Sherlock wasn't.

Sherlock had asked him to help because he knew Lestrade was good at this, good at talking to witnesses, had managed to talk to Sherlock, negotiate with Sherlock when he was in the height of his addiction. He was good and Sherlock wanted the best for his best friend, thought he wasn't it and so was staying back and letting Lestrade take over.

But John didn't know that. He thought that his best friend, the man he was practically in love with if only the two stubborn idiots could see it, had abandoned him when he was at his lowest.

He had to tell Sherlock.


	2. Chapter 2

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade took a deep breath and tried to prepare himself for what he tried to convince himself was _not_ the biggest challenge of his career.

"All right, Sherlock, listen to me. I have a theory. I've been talking to John for a couple of months now, and he's only been getting more depressed-"

"Well, then you're obviously-"

"No! Listen to me. You know I'm good at talking to people and John's my friend but I'm not getting through to him and my theory is that is because it's me talking to him and not you."

"Why should that matter?" asked Sherlock, confused, and Greg Lestrade was sure that this was one conversation he never wanted to have. As always, genius Sherlock Holmes may be but emotional matters always seemed to elude him.

"Because you're his best friend for whatever unknown reason! How to explain this? Um, say you were at an all time low, say you, I don't know, lost the ability to think, became normal and the only person who would talk to you properly was me. I would say Mycroft since he's the only one who understands your brain but you'd just kill him. Anyway, how would you feel if you were at your very worst and John just backed off, didn't try to help?"

There was a pause as Sherlock tried to process everything Greg had said and Greg thought it was the longest he had ever seen Sherlock take to process something. He was probably having to create a new room in that 'Mind Palace' of his.

"But that's different," Sherlock said, "I was doing what was best for John, I don't understand emotions like these, but John's the only one who understands my brain and me, so it wouldn't make sense for him to back off."

"I know! But John doesn't know that. All he is seeing is his best friend abandoning him when he's at his lowest. You need to talk to him, Sherlock."

"OK. I think I see that. But I can't start having a … heart to heart with John. I don't know how."

And so DI Gregory Lestrade was faced with what he could not now deny was the biggest challenge of his career: teaching Sherlock how to talk to John sensitively. Even harder when he wasn't sure what Sherlock needed to say himself. All he knew was that he was sure, for whatever reason, consciously or subconsciously, John wanted Sherlock to be the one to fix him and Greg was determined that even if he couldn't cure John himself, he could help Sherlock do so.

They got themselves firmly ensconced in Greg's flat and Greg procured the first requirement: coffee, black, two sugars for Sherlock. He was tempted to go for something stronger but he needed his brain as sharp as possible.

"OK. Rule One: John is not an experiment, a case or an object to be fixed; he's your friend. Do you understand the very vital difference?"

"But he does need to be fixed!"

"OK, true, I guess. But if you go at it from that angle he's going to think he's going to think he's no different in your mind than the severed head in your fridge. Just another experiment."

"The head's been gone for months now, how unobservant can you be?"

"That's not the point! It was an example. He needs to know he's important."

"But he does know he's important. Obviously he's important."

Greg felt the days stretch ahead of him.

…

John knew Sherlock and Greg had been talking a lot, about something very important. They were always somewhere else, always talking. Hurried whispers and glancing, darting gazes. Did they think he didn't notice? Or did they know and just not care.

It was a new case, no doubt. A case. It must have been a good one, to keep Sherlock's interest for this long. An eight at least. Possibly even a nine or a ten, judging from the way Sherlock was acting. John had lost count of the nicotine patches Sherlock had got through. They hadn't even told him about this new case. An eight and they hadn't even included him.

John had thought he would be upset, instead he only felt numb. A complete and utter lack of energy. He just sat and stared at nothing. He had known it would come to this, eventually.

…

Mycroft had been watching everything, of course. He remembered the time that John had joked that Mycroft was Big Brother, literally and metaphorically, back before when John still made jokes. They had an odd relationship, but it was warm in it's own way. But tonight was the night. Lestrade had been coaching his little brother and tonight Sherlock would talk to John. Tonight he would play the role he was possibly least suited for – therapist, but for some reason, most definitely unknown to John himself (Mycroft was quite sure John hadn't realised his feelings yet, nor had Sherlock, for that matter). Tonight Sherlock would either ruin everything forever or begin the road to recovery.

Mycroft was not a religious or superstitious man, but he knew Sherlock's skills and at precisely 8.00pm, when he knew Sherlock was arriving at 221B, Mycroft sat in his office and hoped.

…

Sherlock hadn't felt this nervous entering 221B since he had returned from the dead. It was ridiculous; he knew what he had to do. But still, this could be the make or break and he could stand to loose John.

John was sitting in his usual armchair. He didn't even look up as he entered the room. Sherlock walked and collapsed into his armchair.

"Hello John."

…

Was this is? Was he finally being thrown out of 221B? Of his home? Sherlock's whole manner since entering the flat had been strange, anxious, and almost nervous. Sherlock never got nervous. He didn't seem to be able to look at John for more than a second at a time. Unable to stand the tension John exploded, his anger a shield.

"All right," he said bitterly, "if you want me to go, I'll go. You don't need to draw it out."

"What?" replied Sherlock, seemingly perplexed.

"Well you obviously want to tell me something and you're practically shaking with nerves, so just spit it out, damn you."

Usually Sherlock was never fazed when John shouted, but this time Sherlock was silent for a long time. John even feared he'd made things worse, but Sherlock's face gradually changed to what John had privately called his 'deducing expression' and then the familiar look of dawning realisation and triumph.

"I think I see what the problem is."

…


	3. Chapter 3

A/N – Ah, we're nearing the end. I'm not quite sure about this chapter, so, as always, reviews and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated.

…

_Sherlock's face gradually changed to what John had privately called his 'deducing expression' and then the familiar look of dawning realisation and triumph._

"_I think I see what the problem is."_

"And what's that? What have you deduced about me?" John said bitterly. He should have known he had no secrets from Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock moved closer and spoke quickly and softly.

"For some reason your feeling insecure. Undervalued. You've been depressed, quiet, socialising less and less, you haven't any romantic interaction with women. Your tremor and limp have returned. You lashed out just now, using your anger as a shield, assuming that I would want to get rid of you when it was obvious I wanted I wanted to speak to speak to you, your insecurities made you think that the only possible reason I would want to speak to you in such a manner would be to throw you out. But John … John, I," and now the time came when he needed to tell John the most important thing he couldn't find the words. For the first time that he could remember Sherlock found himself cursing the fact that emotions weren't his area.

"Yes?" John's voice was hesitant, but hopeful.

"I would never want to throw you out. I … I _need_ you."

John laughed. His bitterness only seemed to have increased.

"Why would you possibly need _me_?"

And Sherlock had no answer because it was the frustrating case of them all; why was John so necessary? There was no logical answer, but the simple truth was that John made him _better_, he made the work more enjoyable, John stimulated his mind in a way he couldn't explain. In fact, Sherlock could no longer imagine his life without John, and that was both terrifying and exhilarating. But how to explain this to John, when he himself did not have an answer?

And so Sherlock launched into a haphazard explanation. He had the vague suspicion that he had said a few unwise things (judging by John's expression, and he generally did judge by John's expression) but on the whole he didn't think he did too badly, considering he didn't have too much practice.

Sherlock finished with the words, "It's frustrating. I almost can't explain it, but you are most definitely not useless, John. I never needed a flatmate, I just agreed with Stamford to shut him, but then you walked in. Military man, doctor, then you leant me your phone and you fascinated me, from the moment met. No one else has done that. Except Moriarty, but he doesn't count, obviously. You are important, the most important. You … must have realised when Moriarty said he'd burn the heart out of me, he meant you. A little fanciful of him, but the meaning is there."

"Yes. I guessed that's what he was implying, but when judging my relationships, I don't generally go to Moriarty for advice, nor do I believe that he's the best person to judge exactly what it would take to burn the heart out of anyone. He's a psychopath."

There was a pause then at the same time both Sherlock and John pictured Moriarty as some kind of twisted relationship counsellor and, in the tense release of emotions, started laughing and found they couldn't stop.

…

Greg watched John over the next few weeks, glad to see that ever since Sherlock had had his talk with him John seemed to be improving. These things couldn't be cured instantly, Greg knew, but whatever Sherlock had said, whatever had happened, it was a definite step in the right direction. Sherlock was also paying a lot more attention to John, constantly making sure he was OK. Whatever he had deduced to be wrong with John, it had shaken him. John seemed to enjoy the attention, though being a private person Sherlock's almost obsessive worrying sometimes annoyed him when John needed time alone.

Greg was also happy that the drinks down the pub with John had resumed. John was, of course, not the person he had been before. The trips did not happen as often as they did before, and John was not as lively, or as chatty, or as outgoing, but they were still enjoyable and John was slowly becoming the friend he remembered. The only problem had been convincing Sherlock that letting John out of his sight to go to the pub with Greg was good for John. Once Sherlock had been convinced of this he was, well, not happy, but he didn't complain. Much. But never within earshot of John; he knew complaining wouldn't be good for John's recovery.

…

Mycroft had watched and smiled. It seemed that when it came to John, his little brother could bend himself into any shape, even a therapist. Though Sherlock's words had been disorganised and muddled to say the least, they had set the ball rolling. John and Sherlock were vital to each other and if one fell the other would soon follow, and Mycroft, the supposed "Ice Man" was fond of both of them.

…

Mrs Hudson noticed the improvement and on impulse baked her boys a cake in celebration. Victoria Sponge, John's favourite. Everybody knew why she had done it, and nobody said, though for once Mrs Hudson didn't try to convince them that it was 'just this once, dear, I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper'. All three of them gathered in 221B and ordered in Chinese, ate the cake, drank the tea and watched the Muppet's Christmas Carol (John's favourite film from his childhood). Sherlock didn't even complain about the film, in fact, he had even admitted he enjoyed it, especially the Marley song. It wasn't most people's idea of a proper celebration and helping someone to recover, but they weren't most people.

…

John himself was a curious mix of emotions. Often he found the depression returning, the feeling of uselessness, and the complete and utter lack of energy or motivation to do anything at all. Sometimes he felt a completely irrational anger and irritation, lashing out for no reason at all. What was worse was he knew it was irrational, but he couldn't stop himself, so he took to shutting himself away when the irritation came. But he also found himself recovering, long periods of happiness that he had not known in a long time, the weight lifting and more than that, the knowledge, the indescribable, brilliant knowledge that Sherlock cared for him, even needed him. And that was the best of all.


End file.
